Reckoning (2 page)

I pray that it’s only my imagination. Or the sound of my own movements. But it comes again. Just beyond the branches, followed by panting, heavy and labored.

Silence again. Then, to my horror, a low growl.

It knows I‘m here.

Shaking my head in mute denial, my eyes flood with tears. I scramble backwards, pressing my back against the tree.

Wrapping my arms around my legs, I press my face to my knees. I hear a rustle of movement; feel the presence of something dark and cold. Muscles trembling, I squeeze my arms and legs tighter, choking back a sob.

Don’t look. Just be quiet. It’ll go away.

Heart pounding, I listen. And wait. But I hear nothing beyond the sound of my own panic-stricken breaths, unnaturally loud in the eerie stillness. I lift my head slightly, daring a peek out of the corner of my eye.

Nothing. Suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, my arms loosen their grip around my knees. Tiny pricks of pain, like a thousand needles pressing against my skin, creep up the base of my skull, stabbing at my temples. A single tear rolls down my cheek.

The air grows colder, and I hear it, moving behind me. Inching closer and closer. I hold myself perfectly still, my eyes locked onto the patch of dark soil visible between my knee and elbow. I began trembling, the uncontrollable spasms of my muscles making my breath come in quick gasps. Something touches my shoulder and my head jerks up, the air rushing out of my lungs.

I feel a hot breath on my neck and a scream rips from my throat, shattering the stillness like a bullet through glass.

________

I wake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed, the darkness pressing in on me. My eyes lock onto the thin shaft of light coming from the edges of the window blind.

My heart hammering in my chest, I press a trembling hand to my neck and sink back down onto the pillows. Sighing, I roll over and watch the second hand on the clock tick slowly around the dial. I take slow, deep breaths as the vividness of the dream begins to fade.

My cat, Alecto, lifts her head, blinking sleepy blue eyes at me before rising and repositioning herself in the crook of my arm. I stroke her soft fur, trying to ignore the disturbing thoughts running through my head.

This is the third time this week I’ve woken in the dark, skin slick with sweat, the beginnings of a scream forming at the back of my throat. It’s the dream. Always the same: The fog, the fear and desperation, the endless pursuit. It never changes.

Except for one thing. Each time, it gets closer. Whatever
it
is.

I shudder and rub roughly at my neck.

What would happen if it actually caught me, I wonder. Would I die, passing away in my sleep from ‘unknown causes’? Someone once told me that if you have one of those dreams where you’re falling and you don’t wake up before you hit the ground, you could actually die. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but I’d rather not find out.

I sigh and pull Alecto closer.

Right now, all I know for sure is that it’s starting again. Turning my head to the side, I close my eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

“Kat.”

I ignore the droning voice making its way with dogged persistence through my sleep-addled brain.

“Kat,” the voice says again, stronger this time, ignoring my groan of impatience. “Get up.”

A hand nudges my shoulder and I force my eyes open. My mom gazes down at me, her dark blond hair held in place with a plastic hair clip. “It’s after seven. Aren’t you meeting Rachel before school?”

My brain suddenly switches to
On
and I sit up, glancing at the clock: 7:08. And I’m supposed to meet my best friend Rachel at 7:30. And I haven’t even showered.

“Crap!” I leap out of bed, rubbing the kink from my neck and shoulders.

Mom presses a mug of hot coffee heavily laced with cream into my hands, and I take a hurried sip, scalding my tongue as I race to the bathroom.

Emerging from the steam-filled stall less than three minutes later, I quickly apply some mascara, a few strokes of blush, then wave the blow dryer over my hair just long enough to dry my roots and bangs.

I glance at myself in the mirror. I look pale and tired, my hair hanging in long, wet strands past my shoulders. Wet, it looks more brown than red. “Another five-star day for Katriona Matheson,” I mumble, then reach for toothbrush and toothpaste. Clamping the brush between my teeth, I hurriedly don bra and underwear then grab jeans and a black t-shirt from my closet. I finish dressing, rinse my mouth, slip my feet into a pair of black Converse, then grab my book bag and race for the door.

“See you tonight, Mom,” I call over my shoulder.

__________

“
No way
!” I exclaim, standing in the student parking lot, still breathless from the twelve blocks I have just run from my house to school. My mouth hangs open like some kind of arcade attraction – get the ball in the clown’s mouth, earn ten points. A fly whizzes past my head, and I snap my mouth closed. My eyes shift between Rachel, her face split into an enormous told-you-so grin, and the shiny, new yellow Volkswagen Beetle she is proudly standing next to. She’d told me yesterday that she had a surprise for me. But this was the last thing I had expected.

To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m more astounded by at the moment – the fact that she actually has a car, or the sight of her long, dark hair hanging in two braids down the front of her layered pink and white t-shirt, partially covering the peace signs emblazoned on the front. Rachel and I made a pact when we were eleven that braids were absolutely,
positively
no longer an option. Yet here she is, proudly displaying them to the world beneath her multi-colored knit hat. With her short denim skirt, black leggings and black Uggs, multiple bracelets and choker necklaces, I can’t decide if she’s a remarkable trendsetter or a fashion question mark. Either way, standing next to her in my t-shirt and jeans, I feel remarkably underdressed.

Deciding the car is the more urgent matter at the moment, I ask, “You
really
got your own car?”

Rachel nods, jumping up and down and clapping her hands with excitement. “I
so
told you I’d get one for my birthday.”

“Your
birthday
! Rach, that was months ago. I hardly think getting it now qualifies as a birthday present.” I lean over to peer inside. Rachel turned seventeen last November and since the beginning of the school year she has kept up a near-daily litany on how she is absolutely positive she is getting a car – first for her birthday; then when that didn’t happen, for Christmas; then as the holidays faded into the distance and the new year came and went, for the straight A’s on her report card. But as the end of our junior year at Crestview High drew relentlessly closer and a car had yet to make an appearance, I’d spent the last month pleading with her to just give it up, already. Rachel, however, refused to accept defeat, convinced her parents were just holding out on her, opting for the element of surprise. If that were true, they had certainly succeeded - at least on my part.

“So why now?” I ask, still in the throes of disbelief. “Or were they just sick of listening to you?” If she had kept on about it to her parents as much as she had to me, I think I would have given in, too.

“No,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me. “I never said a word to them. Like I’ve been saying all along, it
is
for my birthday.
And
Christmas.
And
my 3.8 GPA this year. Go on,” she urges, opening the door. “Get in! It is
so
awesome!”

I slide onto the driver’s seat, hands clasping the wheel. Rachel is right. It is awesome. Cute and compact, and coolly stylish with its retro-chicness, it’s perfectly…well, Rachel. Granted, it isn’t the blue Mini Cooper with the British flag on the roof and backs of the side mirrors that she’s been gushing over, and it doesn’t come close to the well-used Jeep Wrangler that’s for sale at the end of my block, and that I’ve been fantasizing about for weeks, but there’s no question it’s a close second. Really close. A flash of jealousy surges through me as I finger the silk daisy in the convenient vase attached to the dashboard. My seventeenth birthday is in two weeks, and I know with absolute certainty that I won’t be getting a car. Unless I can pay for it myself. And even that involves a long and protracted argument with my parents that makes me tired just thinking about it. As it is, they have yet to confirm that I’ll even be getting my drivers license.

Rachel is lucky, no question about it.

I look up, peering through the sunroof at the clear blue Colorado sky, the rays of the late spring sun warming the interior. My fingers trail across the air vents and the buttons on the CD player, down to the cup holder and back up across the smooth circle of the leather-covered steering wheel. I sigh and turned to Rachel with a smile. “Wow. It’s amazing, Rach.”

Rachel squats down and runs her hand along the edge of the black leather seat. “I know. Isn’t it?” The expression on her face changes from total happiness to resigned dejection.

I look at her with surprise. Rachel is rarely bummed about anything. “What?”

Grimacing, she says, “I have to work in my mom’s shop this summer.” The shop being a recently opened home interiors store in LoDo, the trendy area of lower downtown Denver. “
And
be her delivery driver,” she adds, lifting one side of her upper lip in distaste.

“Oh, come on,” I protest, with a laugh. “It won’t be that bad. You’re mom’s store is nice. And it beats going home smelling like greasy French fries every day.”

“Yeah, but selling throw pillows and designer sheets to overly-accessorized and perfumed fifty year olds isn’t exactly my idea of exciting.”

“You know there’ll be more people than that coming in. And who knows, maybe you’ll meet some really cute guys.” I waggle my eyebrows at her.

Rachel cocks her head, raising one eyebrow in disbelief. “Any cute guys coming into an interior design store aren’t going to be checking me out. I’m not exactly their type, if you know what I mean.”

I laugh, shaking my head, because
everybody
checks her out. Young. Old. Men. Women. Gay. Straight. It doesn’t matter. Because Rachel de Santis is beautiful. Tall and thin, with an athletic build, thick dark brown hair, golden skin and deep brown eyes surrounded by lush, dark lashes she never has to use a stroke of mascara on, she is one of those rare beings who never have a pimple or a bad hair day. Even if she gets caught in the rain, she just flips her hair to the side, letting it air dry into long waves. She’s like some Italian goddess. It’s disgusting. But we’ve been best friends since third grade, bonding over our mutual dislike of our teacher, Miss Keppel, a woman who obviously despised children so decided her ideal job would be a teacher so she could spend the rest of her days torturing them. Unbelievably, three years later, the school administration had moved her to sixth grade so we’d had to endure her all over again.

“Well, it could be worse,” I say, nodding like an all-knowing sage. Rachel shrugs, unconvinced by my profound words of wisdom. My brows draw together. “What’s really bothering you, Rach?” I know there has to be something more than the lack of available boyfriend material.

Rachel sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I just really don’t want to work for my mom. I mean, she’s great and everything, but I just…would rather do something else.”

“You’d rather have a boss who’s not your parent too?” I guess.

“Yes!” she exclaims. “Totally!”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, rubbing her arm. “It won’t be that bad. You’re mom’s pretty cool. I’m sure she’ll understand where you’re coming from.”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

Taking one last look around, I step out of the car and gave her a big hug. “This really is awesome. Congrats, Rach.”

“Thanks, Kat,” she says, breaking into a smile. “I can’t wait ‘til school’s over today. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Sweet!”

The sound of the bell sends us into panic mode and gathering our backpacks we run through the parking lot, dashing through the double-door, glass entrance.

Jostling our way through the congestion of the hallway, I toss my backpack into my locker, grabbing notebook and pencils for dreaded first period chemistry. Before closing the door, I glance in the small mirror mounted on the back. Unimpressed, I swing the door closed.

As students make their way into classrooms, the crowd thins, revealing the perfectly coiffed blonde head of Steph Henderson. She is crouched on the floor, frantically flipping through a stack of papers. With just two weeks left before the end of the school year, most of us have already begun the process of cleaning out our lockers. But Steph’s is still crammed to overflowing with loose paper, overdue school library books, balled up tshirts, crumpled and torn notebooks and miscellaneous candy wrappers. It amazes me how someone so disorganized and sloppy manages to look so flawless. When it comes to Steph, there is never a hair, an eyelash or thread out of place. From her make-up to her clothes, she is perfection.

Her personality, however, is a different story. Cold, calculating, and endlessly critical, she is the epitome of the word
bitch
. And for some reason, ever since freshman year, she’s had it in for me, never missing an opportunity to make some insulting remark about my hair, my pale skin, what I’m wearing and just about anything else that pops into her tiny head.

Watching her slowly descend into panic mode, I feel a small sense of satisfaction.

Adjusting my books, I paste an innocent expression on my face. “Is everything OK, Steph?”

She glances up and gives me a withering look, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. “No, it is
not
OK,” she snaps, as if she can’t believe I’ve just asked such a stupid question. “Ogre-face said I never turned in my last chemistry test, which I
know
I did. She just never marked it in the grade book. And now I can’t find it anywhere. This is
so
going to effect my final grade.”